Harry Potter as written by
by Technomad
Summary: Harry Potter as written by various authors...George Orwell, Anthony Burgess, Sir John Mortimer and others.
1. George Orwell

Harry Potter as written by George Orwell:

1994.

It was a bright warm day in June, and all the clocks were striking thirteen. Harry Potter pushed open the door of Number Four, Privet Drive, and stepped into the entryway. A smell as of boiled bathmats told him that Comrade Petunia, the building's Party leader, had been cooking again, and he shuddered involuntarily, wishing for the bottle of Victory Butterbeer he had secreted in his room to keep it safe from Comrade Dudley.

Harry Potter was an undersized boy, with sharp features and an odd lightning-bolt-shaped scar. Under his arm, he was carrying a package...it contained a big old blank book that he had found in a shop in the "Muggle" area of town. Strictly speaking, it was not forbidden for a Wizard to shop in the "Muggle" areas---there were few fixed rules---but it was frowned upon. He did not feel safe from prying eyes until he was safely in his room, and even then, the ubiquitous portrait that, by law, every Wizard residence and public wall had to have up could see him.

He looked up at the portrait. It was of a strange-looking man, with pasty-white skin, no hair, no lips, slits for nostrils and red eyes. The eyes were always set to follow whoever was looking at the portrait, whether there was an actual watcher there or not. Below the face, were the words: LORD VOLDEMORT IS WATCHING YOU.

Putting the package down on his bed---a quirk of architecture had allowed him to put his bed in a corner of the room the poster could not see---Harry Potter went to the window and looked out over Crabbeville. _Had it always been this way,_ he wondered---_the ruined houses making gaps in the rows, the ubiquitous posters the only spots of color in a bleak, gray landscape_? Even the names were different---he thought he could remember that this place had once been called Little Winnings, or something like that.

Off in the distance, Harry could see London, or at least the great Ministries that dominated its skyline. They were the Ministries of Peace, which handled military affairs, Plenty, which orchestrated famines, Truth, which published the _Daily Prophet_ and all other wizard publications, and the one everybody was afraid of, the Ministry of Magic---Minipax, Miniplenty, Minitruth, and Minimaj, to give them their Newspeak names. Each was housed in a huge, pyramidal building, the only new buildings in London since the Revolution. The _Daily Prophet_ always talked a lot about how they were building new houses, but Harry had not seen a new house in years.

New houses, as well as many other things, were best not thought about. Turning from the window, Harry faced the poster on the wall, automatically adopting the expression of mindless happiness that was considered most desirable when facing the portrait of Lord Voldemort. Downstairs, he could hear the others who lived in the house---Comrade Petunia, Comrade Vernon and Comrade Dudley, and he made ready to go down and face them by pulling out his bottle of Victory Butterbeer and taking a good, healthy swig. As usual, the stuff tasted like cheap Chinese rice-spirits.

Comrade Petunia spotted him first, as he came down the stairs---she was a bony, long-necked woman, who was always peering around, hoping to catch someone doing something for which they could be denounced to the Death Eaters. Denouncing someone to the Death Eaters was a feather in one's cap, particularly if they could be made out to be guilty of thought-crime. Beside her, Comrade Dudley, an obese monstrosity wearing the uniform of the Voldemort Youth, was howling for food as she scooped out a boiled doormat for him to eat.

Later, in his room, Harry opened the book. He took up a quill, and began to write.

_June 29, 1992._

He then paused to think. Just for starters, he wasn't sure that it was 1992---dates were vague these days, as so many other things were. With the first rule being "Don't ask questions!" it was easy to get things confused---people who asked too many questions tended to disappear in the night.

When he looked down, he was horrified. While he was thinking, his hand had continued to write:

_Down with Lord Voldemort Down with Lord Voldemort Down with Lord Voldemort_

With a gasp of horror, Harry slammed the book shut, thankful that the portrait could not see him. To be sure, nobody ever knew if an individual portrait was being monitored, but the safest rule was to assume that any portrait was being monitored at all times.

To try to drive the horror out of his mind, Harry began to think about something---anything---else. He found himself dwelling on a bushy-haired girl he had seen at school---the sort of girl he hated, the sort that was always answering questions, and loudly proclaiming her loyalty to the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort. He wanted to kiss her, and never would, because around her waist she wore a red sash, emblem of the Anti-Sex League, symbol of chastity.

When he opened the book again, he stared involuntarily. The damning words were no longer there. Instead, he read:

_Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. What is your name?_


	2. Weekly World News

Harry Potter as written by the _Weekly World News_

By Technomad

__

Hogsmeade, Scotland, United Kingdom Much to the surprise of those who have followed his career, Bat Boy has confirmed that he has received a Hogwarts letter, and plans to accept the position offered him.

"It's quite an honor," said Bat Boy to a WWN reporter. "Like many others, I had dreamed of attending Hogwarts, but never believed that I was magical enough to make the grade. I look forward to following in Harry Potter's illustrious footsteps. I'm hoping for Gryffindor House, but I'll accept whatever the Sorting chooses for me."

Reactions to this news have been mixed. At the Ministry of Magic, Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge issued the following statement: "Since its inception, Hogwarts has been a school for human---repeat, human---wizards and witches. Under the spineless regimes of Dippet and Dumbledore, the doors were thrown open wide to all sorts of abominations---a half-giant, a werewolf, and Merlin only knows what all else. I wish I were back there; I'd show this 'Bat Boy' a thing or two!'"

Contacted at Hogwarts, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was dismissive of such concerns. "Madam Umbridge apparently did not profit from her lessons in History of Magic," McGonagall said. "Since its foundation, Hogwarts has taken pride in offering the finest magical education in all Europe to all magically-talented students, certain Founders' asinine prejudices notwithstanding. Madam Umbridge nearly ran the school into the ground during her disastrous tenure as Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, High Inquisitor and Headmistress, and her opinions on the correct way to educate the magical young are of no interest. We look forward to welcoming Bat Boy, and no effort shall be spared to ensure that he receives the finest training."

Madam Hooch, Flying teacher and Quidditch coach, is also eager to welcome Bat Boy. "I've heard a great deal about him," she said, "and can't wait to see how he does on a broom! Harry Potter may need to look to his laurels!"

Minster of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour was neutral on the whole controversy. "This 'Bat Boy'---is he rich? Do you think he'd be willing to make a contribution?" was all he had to say.

In related news, Weekly World News is sad to report that our own columnist Ed Anger has been offered the position of Muggle Studies Professor at Hogwarts, and has accepted, forcing his resignation from our staff.

"I'm happier than a lamprey with a faceful of trout to be joining the Hogwarts staff," said Mr. Anger. "Those little brats will be learning a thing or two, or I'll have to get rough on them!"

Weekly World News wishes both Bat Boy and Mr. Anger the best of luck at Hogwarts, and will be covering their triumphs there with all the strict fidelity to fact, and only fact, that our readers expect of us.


	3. Anthony Burgess

Harry Potter as written by Anthony Burgess

by Technomad

"What's it going to be then, eh?"

There was me, that is Harry, and my three droogs, Ron, Neville and Hermione, Hermione being a very horrorshow devotchka with a really skorry like wand, and we were all sitting around the old Gryffindor Common-Room trying to decide what to do with the day--a Hogsmeade day, bastard though dry.

Me, I wanted to itty down to the old Three Broomsticks mesto in like Hogsmeade, this malenky village nearby, and peet a lot of the old butterbeer-plus…plus synthemesc or drencrom, veshchs that sharpened one up for a bit of the old dirty twenty-to-one with the Death Eaters, this very very bad banda or gruppa of malchickiwicks who were at like war with me. Ron, being like the malenky brat of Fred and George, wanted to do the old in-out-in-out all over the rules, real savage like. Hermione wanted to go give some like aid and assistance to the malenky domy-elves, or house-elves, to use my gentleman's goloss, to free their poor malenky selves from the oppression of the big bloated capitalists. And Neville wanted us to give him some aid finding his malenky toad, Trevor.

As their droog and leader, I made the decision--being the like Malchick who Lived hath its like advantages, O my brothers and only friends. "Out out out out!" I said, and we ittied out into the dark dark corridors of Hogwarts Skolliwoll, where we learned the babayaga veshchs to make us real horrorshow wizards and witches, from starry vecks like Dumbledore, Snape and malenky Flitwick.

Not far along, O my brothers, we viddied a bit of like fun--it was Draco Malfoy and his banda of droogies, having their bit of sport with a malenky first-year. "Welly-welly-welly-well, if it isn't ferret-faced ferret-boy Draco Malfoy, the yarbleless wonder, and his droogs!" I called out. "Come thou, and get a good one in the yarbles--if you have any yarbles, you soprano-voiced yellow-haired yellow-belly, thou!"

And with those slovos, the dratsing began, O my brothers. Wands were out, and we were casting the old babayaga veshchs--spells, to use my gentleman's goloss--real horrorshow and skorry. Your Humble Narrator cast one that knocked Draco Malfoy right into the wall, and he was out and out and out. Ron got Malfoy's like right-hand man, Crabbe, a good one in the rot, and his teeth began to grow and grow, which made Hermione laugh all hahahaha. Neville, though a right hound-and-horny wizard, managed to catch Goyle with a spell that made him cal in his pants, which took him right out of the fight. The firstie had run off when the dratsing began, going oh oh oh, and we let him go, there being plenty more where he came from, as it were.


	4. Mario Puzo

Harry Potter and the Men of Respect

By Technomad, in the style of Mario Puzo

Ginevra Weasley sat in the Three Broomsticks, wearing her best dress robes, her brother Ron by her side. She had been told to be here, and Ron had shown up at the Burrow to escort her. She stole a look at him, and thought that she had never seen him look so solemn. He was also in his good robes, the ones that Fred and George had bought him, and she firmly suppressed the thought that some girl would find him very attractive. To her surprise, she found that she resented the idea that any of her brothers would marry; she quite liked being the most important girl in their lives.

"It's time," said Ron. Getting up, he offered his sister his arm, and they went up the stairs to the big meeting room that Madam Rosmerta had put at Harry Potter's disposal. Inside, she looked around. Harry Potter was sitting at the head of a long table, at which sat all of her brothers save only Ron, Hermione Granger, Dean Thomas, Oliver Wood, Cho Chang, Zacharias Smith, Seamus Finnegan, and, much to Ginny's surprise, Luna Lovegood and Theo Nott. All of them were looking serious. In a corner, a candle burned before a row of wizard photos, but Ginny couldn't make out who was in those pictures.

Harry broke the silence. "Ginevra Weasley, do you know why you are here?"

Ginny knew enough to be able to give the right answer. "No, I do not."

"You are here, Ginevra Weasley, to be inducted into _this thing of ours_--what you may know as Dumbledore's Army." Harry paused, indicating Ron. "Your brother--and the rest of your brothers--have vouched for your loyalty. Have you made your bones?"

"She has, _padrone_," said Ron. "She was sent to kill Goyle, Sr., and completed the mission successfully. To add to things, she set it up so that Rabastan would take the fall for the death."

"Excellent!" Harry looked very pleased.. "On the night of my parents' death, Albus Dumbledore, may he rest in peace, thought to bring me to my relatives' home in Little Whinging, Surrey--only to be forestalled by the Death Eaters. Those scum had killed my harmless Muggle relatives, my Aunt Petunia Dursley, my baby cousin Dudley, and my aunt's husband, Vernon Dursley. Accordingly, he had to activate a backup plan, and sent me to America, to live with a great man who owed him a great favor."

"Ginevra, I have adapted many ideas, many practices, from the organization run by my beloved adopted father, Vito Corleone. In his house, I was treated as a son, raised with love and mentored personally by my adopted father, or, as he was known, the Godfather. He knew that one day he would lose me to the wizarding world, so he took every opportunity to talk to me, one-on-one, and he told me many things that have been very useful. I honor his memory every day of my life, and when that _grinudo_ Lord Voldemort falls at last, it will be because of his wisdom."

Harry paused for a moment to have a sip from the glass of wine by his place. "So, Ginevra, today is your day to declare your loyalty." He paused again, then went on, his voice firmer: "This is not a matter of business. This is not a school prank. This is a thing of honour. If you agree to this, this…thing of ours…must come before everything else. Your religion. Your husband. Your children. If your mother is on her deathbed and you are summoned, you will have to kiss her goodbye and leave to obey whatever orders your superiors have for you." His green eyes flashed behind his glasses. "Do you understand this and agree to it?"

"Yes," said Ginny, proud that her voice didn't shake.

"Two laws that we have are both punished by death, Ginevra," Harry said. "The first is silence. No matter who outside our organisation asks, or under what circumstances, you must never tell our secrets. The second law is to leave other members' spouses and children alone. Can you promise to obey those laws?"

"Yes!"

Harry looked very grim, and as she looked around the table, she saw that everybody else was equally earnest. "In this organisation, you go in alive--you come out only dead. The instrument by which you live is the wand--" picking up her wand--"and it may be the way in which you die. Do you swear, on your magic, to use your wand to help this thing of ours?"

"Hold out your hand, Ginevra." Ginny held out her hand, and it was seized by both of his. "We will now swear the oath, and if you ever betray it, you will most assuredly die. Failure on this point was what orphaned me, long ago." Hermione stepped forward. "Hermione will be our Bonder."

As she swore the oath, their hands were linked by a glow of magic, lighting up the rather dimly-lit room. When it was done, a roar of applause rang out, and Ginny found herself being hugged and kissed by everybody, men and women alike.

"Now that you're a friend of ours, I need to assign you." Harry said. "Everybody, hold out your wand hand and give me a few fingers." A quick count later, and Harry announced: "Very well. You are now a _sgarrista_--a soldier, you might say--in the _regime_ of your older brother, _Caporegime _Fred 'The Jester' Weasley."

Her brother gave her another hug and kissed both her cheeks. "Congratulations. Our parents would be so proud of you!" he muttered in her ear.

"And now, on to other pressing matters," Harry said. "Is the matter of dealing with our dear friend, Draco 'the Tosser' Malfoy taken care of, _consigliere_?"

"Yes, _padrone_," said Hermione. "I have assigned Fred to that task."

"Excellent!" smiled Harry. "Fred?" Fred looked up, his usual jokey manner all gone. He radiated respect as Harry went on: "Take our new friend along on this. She needs to see how these things are done."

Some weeks later, Draco Malfoy woke up. He felt something else in his bed--something that was not him. A quick "Lumos" brought light, and when he saw what had been left in his bed, he screamed himself hoarse for five minutes straight.

A few blocks away, listening in on the Muggle electronic devices they had had planted in Malfoy's room by a cooperative and close-mouthed house elf, Ginny turned to her older brother and caporegime.

"Fred--I love it, but wasn't the original plan to put a horse's _head_ in his bed?"

Fred winked at his little sister. "Yes, it was. However, we came up with this variation, and the boss agreed that putting the _other_ end of a horse there would be more appropriate."

"Ah, I see. Draco always _was_ a horse's arse, wasn't he?"

Meanwhile, in his dark, dark underground headquarters, the Dark Lord, Voldemort, received a package. No fool, he cast several spells that would tell him if the package was dangerous. Finding nothing wrong, he opened it.

Inside, he found a wizard's robe, wrapped around a very odd, very dead creature. "Lucius--_what_ is _this_?"

"That, my lord, is a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. And those robes look like Walden McNair's. It's a message, my lord. It's meant to tell you that Walden McNair now sleeps with the Snorkacks."

Voldemort sighed. "Well--he slept with everything else when he was alive. Why should being dead change anything?"

END


	5. Blackadder

Harry Potter as written by the guys who did "Blackadder"

by Technomad

_A flash of green across the pond,_

_He does his nasty doings for fun,_

_Beware his yew-and-phoenix wand,_

_Or else you may well end up undone!_

_Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle,_

_He can talk to a snake!_

_Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle,_

_With fear he'll make you shake!_

_Black are sins that he commits_

_And Black's a family in his service,_

_He does things that no law permits_

_The things he does make people nervous._

_Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle,_

_He'll use that name no more!_

_Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle,_

_Is now Lord Voldemort!_

(Interior of the Dark Lord's evil hideout. Lord Voldemort is sitting there, with Wormtail beside him.)

Voldemort: Well, Wormy, fortune vomits into my codpiece yet again. Another cunning plan to get rid of that pestilential 'Boy-who-Lived,' foiled.

Wormtail: My Lord---I have a cunning plan!

Voldemort: Is this like your 'cunning plan' to make love wearing clothes, so that the baby won't be born naked?

Wormtail: No, My Lord. It's so cunning, you could put white fur all over it and call it a ferret!

Voldemort (impatiently): Well, out with it. Even listening to your maunderings might be amusing.

Wormtail: Well, My Lord, it occurs to me that Harry Potter's a teenage boy. As a teenage boy, he's the slave of his hormones.

Voldemort: And your point is?

Wormtail: I thought that if we sent in a girl, he'd be caught in her sexual web and be her helpless puppet…and then we'd have him?

Voldemort: After she'd had him, I take it? (Sighs) Well, we do have a few teenage girl Death Eaters…I suppose it can't hurt to try.

Wormtail: And we can use that…special…perfume you had Snape make up!

Voldemort (interested, despite himself): You mean, the perfume that makes its wearer all but irresistable? That's a great plan, Wormtail!

Wormtail (gratified): You mean that, My Lord?

Voldemort: Of course! I'm proud of myself for thinking it up!

(Fade to black.)

A few hours later, we are back in the Dark Lord's underground lair. Voldemort is looking distinctly unhappy. Wormtail is looking scared, and Bellatrix Lestrange is massaging Voldemort's shoulders. Other Death Eaters are standing around.

Voldemort: I don't understand it! The girl we sent is a teenager, and she's a loyal Death Eater!

Wormtail: I know what you mean, My Lord! I mean…who could resist Millicent Bulstrode in a lacy negligee?

Voldemort: Apparently, Harry Potter could. Oh, well, yet again a brilliant plan fails due to messy old reality. What did you do with the rest of the perfume?

Wormtail: I ran into Madame Malfoy at the castle, and passed it on to her. She said she wanted to try something…

Voldemort: If she plans to try getting that husband of hers interested, she doesn't need perfume. She needs Polyjuice Potion to make herself look just like him.

Wormtail: You did say that the love affair between Lucius Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy was one of the most passionate you'd ever seen.

(Enter Narcissa Malfoy, looking very disheveled, with her robes all but falling off her. She gives the Dark Lord a silly, sated smile.)

Narcissa: My Lord…I beg to report…complete success!

Voldemort: At what?

Narcissa: Well, I tried out the perfume, and it worked…better than I had anticipated! I have seduced Harry Potter, and enslaved him with my sexual wiles to the point where he's now willing to swear allegiance to Dark Magic for all time!

Voldemort and Wormtail in unison: WHAAAT?

Narcissa (reminiscently): Not only Harry…I managed to ensnare his friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger (Wormtail looks quite shocked), as well as the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team…and this weird little blonde Ravenclaw girl who hangs around with them. I haven't had that much fun since the time I Imperiused the Manchester United forwards into joining me in my hot tub!

Voldemort: So you have them all ready to join us?

Bellatrix: You did WHAT?

Narcissa: The technical term is 'gang-bang,' sister dear. Would you like an explanation?

Bellatrix: But with…girls…as well?

Narcissa: Don't knock it if you haven't tried it, sis! Or…come to it, you were in prison for quite a while, weren't you?

Bellatrix: TOO MUCH INFORMATION!

Narcissa: I wonder…what would have happened if I'd visited the Slytherin dorms…

All the Death Eaters look shocked.

Voldemort (taking control): So you have Harry Potter ready to join us?

Narcissa: Oh, yes. All of them are outside!

Voldemort: Summon them!

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team file in, all wearing Death Eater robes. Voldemort looks very pleased.

Voldemort: So, my boy, you and your friends are ready to join us?

Harry: Before I do, I have two words to say to you.

Voldemort: What are they?

Harry (pointing his wand) Transfiguro Dominus!

Voldemort is suddenly turned into a statue. Harry and his friends now have the Death Eaters covered with their wands.

Harry: I may have chosen to follow the path of Dark Magic, but I didn't say a word about kissing the arse of a tosser who was beaten by a baby. I can't kill him, but as a statue, he can't do any harm. I think that the bottom of the Marianas Trench should do as a depository, don't you, my friends?

Hermione: I'm a little insulted that you clowns think that a wanker who was repeatedly beaten by children was a worthy leader.

Ron: Meet the new boss…

Hermione: _Worse than the old boss_!

All the Death Eaters present, with the exception of Bellatrix, get the picture very quickly, kneeling and bowing their heads to their new master.

Bellatrix: No! I am loyal to my love!

Luna: Too bad for you!

Luna points her wand, and with a flash of magic, Bellatrix is transformed into a mouse. Luna picks it up and holds it aloft by the tail, smiling a very strange smile.

Luna: Hermione---where is Crookshanks? Or do you think Hedwig would like a snack, Harry?

Hedwig swoops in, takes the mouse and swallows it, and perches on Harry's shoulder.

Harry (smiling an evil smile) And now…let's get dangerous!

_All dark wizards now feel joy,_

_Their cause is now a certain winner,_

_Though their new leader is a boy,_

_We know now that he's quite a sinner!_

_Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle,_

_Is now made out of stone!_

_Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle,_

_He really should have known!_

_We know Potter soon will rule,_

_With Dumbledore no more encumbered,_

_And Fudge is like a calendar,_

_At least, we know his days are numbered!_

_Lord Potter, Lord Potter,_

_The one we can't replace,_

_Lord Potter, Lord Potter,_

_Is in his rightful place!_

THE END


	6. Mickey Spillane

Harry Potter as written by Mickey Spillane

My Wand is Quick

by Technomad

I stood there, the rain pouring down out of the bleak autumnal sky, and looked down at the corpse in the gutter. There was no sign of blood, but I knew that this had been a murder. My gut knotted at the thought of how it had been done.

"Yeah---it looks like the Cruciatus Curse, all right. Done long enough, and hard enough, it's a killer all by itself." Ron Weasley, head of the Auror division in Knockturn Alley, and one of my best pals in the world, squatted over the corpse. "Poor Longbottom---he didn't deserve this. But then, nobody does."

I disagreed. I could think of quite a few cheap hoods and Dark Wizards whose brains I'd love to fry with a nice, prolonged Cruciatus, and whoever had done this had just joined that list. "Ron---you'd better find whoever did this, fast."

Ron looked up at me. "Or you'll take care of it yourself, Harry? They do pay us Aurors to take care of crimes, you know. You're supposed to be a private detective, not a one-man vigilante squad."

"I know that. I also know that, because I _am_ a private eye, I can do things and go places that you Aurors can't. I can find out things before you can. And right now, finding whatever yellow weasel fried Neville Longbottom's brains for him is my number-one case."

"He was your friend."

"He was a friend to all of us. Hell, he saved all our asses by organizing Dumbledore's Army again, when you, me and Hermione all went on our Magical Mystery Tour, remember? Without the DA, we'd have been toast a dozen times over." I clenched my fist, wishing it was around someone's neck. "He'd have taken a spell---or a Muggle bullet---for you, me or any of us without a second thought, and never wondered why we'd make a fuss about it."

"Just try to keep it legal, okay? I have all I can do without having to cover for your vendettas." With that, Ron made a signal, and his assistants swooped in to take all that was left of Neville Longbottom off to the morgue.

I hadn't let Ron see just how angry I was. I fully intended to beat him to whoever had killed Neville Longbottom, and I had plans for that person. Whoever had done it hadn't just wanted him to die, although that would have been enough by itself. I wanted to get whoever had done this, and see him suffer just the way Neville had suffered. It wouldn't be a quick, easy death for this one.

And I planned to start my latest investigation by slapping some answers out of a particular creep, rat and punk who was up to his inbred ears in every bit of dirty dealing down Knockturn Alley. I was looking forward to paying a visit to Mr. Draco "the Ferret" Malfoy.

*

Before I went over to Malfoy's place to start re-acquainting him with the business end of my brass knuckles, I stopped at my office. My secretary, Ginny, gave me one of those million-Galleon smiles that I liked so much. I knew she had it bad for me, but I kept it strictly business between us.

"Hey, toots. Anything come in that I need to know about?" She looked through the inbox.

"Nothing, Harry. Not this time."

"Good. I'm headed over to talk with a ferret."

*

Although his operations reached their slimy tentacles into the foulest parts of Knockturn Alley, and all over the underside of Wizarding Britain, but his offices were class all the way---they all but screamed money. Looking at them, I ground my teeth, thinking of all the underhanded ways he had made that money. Every dirty racket, every crooked deal, paid Malfoy a percentage.

I made my usual entrance, slamming the door open with a loud bang. Malfoy's secretary, Pansy Parkinson, screamed like she'd just seen a mouse, or like her husband had caught her in bed with the paperboy. "Mr. Potter! What do you want?"

"Keep your cool, skirt. I'm not here after you today. I want your boss."

"But you can't see him!" She glanced helplessly toward the office door that was marked _Draco Malfoy_. "You don't have an appointment---"

"I don't need an appointment to see him!" Shoving her aside, not too hard, I kicked Malfoy's door open like I was a Panzer and his office was Paris. Malfoy goggled at me, his face even pastier than its usual color.

"Potter! What do you mean, bursting in on me? I haven't done anything---" Before he could tell any more lies, I was on him, with my fist twisting his expensive ascot tight around his neck as I banged his head against the wall, my wand out and pointed.

"Listen, you miserable little sewer rat. Neville Longbottom just bought it, and I think you or someone in your organization had something to do with it!" I slammed his head against the wall for emphasis---and just because it felt good. Hurting Malfoy's one of my chief pleasures in life.

"But I didn't---I didn't have anything to do with it! Honest!" By now, his nose was bleeding, and he was definitely going to have to replace his trousers, if my nose was any judge. He couldn't take his eyes off the business end of my wand, which was pointed right between his beady little ferret eyes.

I let go of him, and he slumped, holding his nose. Leaning down, I hissed: "You better hope none of your people had anything to do with it, you gutter scrapings, because if you did---you'll be lucky if the Aurors are the ones that catch up to you!" I shoved my wand toward him, and he flinched. "My wand is quick---and I am the Wizengamot! They won't need to waste time on a trial for you---just a funeral!" I smiled at the thought. "The undertaker won't be able to leave your box open, either, punk, because after I and my wand are done with you, Michelangelo wouldn't be able to make you look good!"

END


	7. William Gibson

Harry Potter as written by William Gibson

Necromancer

The sky over Knockturn Alley was the color of dead ashes left in a fireplace, after a Floo call.

"It's not like I'm drinking," Harry heard, as he opened the door and entered the Snake-and-Skull pub, "it's just that my body's developed this massive Firewhisky deficiency." It was a wizard joke---you could hang around in Knockturn Alley for your whole life and never run into a single Muggle.

Harry Potter had once been a Seeker. One of the best in the game, he had helped his team, the Chudley Cannons, win victory after victory. Then he had done the one thing that could not be forgiven. He had taken money from gamblers who wanted to have some power over the point-spread, to avoid catching the Snitch until the spread had been beaten.

The people who had caught up to him had been very kind. He could keep the money, they said. In fact, they insisted that he keep it, because he was going to need it. They would make sure he never made the same mistake again.

They had dosed him with a potion that gave him unendurable vertigo---but only when he was on a broom. Strapped to a bed in the Leaky Cauldron, he had hallucinated for twenty straight hours.

Harry, like all Quidditch players, had lived to fly---and now he could not. He still had his magic, but the thing that he'd loved most was now forever beyond his reach.

Now he hustled for his living, under his new _nom-de-guerre_ of "Harry Greeneyes." Nobody here knew he had once been the Boy-who-Lived, the Quidditch star, Harry Potter---and he wanted to keep it that way. He was a wand for hire, and available to the highest bidder, like many others in Knockturn Alley.

Knockturn Alley was like a complicated dance, where if you went too fast or too slow, you could end up as potions ingredients, or a fading memory in the minds of real old-timers like the Swede, who tended bar at the Snake-and-Skull. It was a real-life experiment in Social Darwinism, where only the toughest and most ruthless survived.

At first, every Knut Harry had made had gone toward finding a cure, but even the finest Healers, first in the UK, then the rest of the world, had shaken their heads sadly. The potions he had been force-fed were experimental neurotoxins, not even on the market yet, and even the Black Healers in Basin City, California, could figure out a counter-toxin or spell.

Pushing through the crowd, Harry elbowed aside a hag who was busily arguing over prices on some hot potions ingredients and got up close to the bar. The Swede looked at him incuriously. "The usual, Swede."

"You're getting kind of predictable, Greeneyes," commented the Swede, as he drew a glass of Muggle-made Guinness and handed it over at the sight of Harry's cash. "One of these days, someone's going to be waiting for you."

"Predictable helps my customers find me, Swede." Harry took a long pull of the beer. It was an unusual taste for a wizard, but he had found he actually preferred Muggle-made beers after his experience with the potions. Most potions reacted very badly to Muggle drinks, and he was taking no chances on anybody dosing him, ever again.

"Ha ha," the Swede commented sourly. "Her---" he pointed at the hag---"she's twice as profitable for me as you are. _You,_ I let stay here for the amusement value." The Swede wiped down the bar. "By the way, a girl was in here earlier, asking for you."

"A job?" Harry leaned forward. Living the way he did, with an ostensible address that he actually never went near, and several real boltholes that he used for sleeping, was expensive, and although his services weren't cheap, he never managed to save much money.

"Maybe." Just then, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, and he whirled, bringing his wand up to bear. "And there she is now."

Harry found himself facing a bushy-haired girl wearing what looked to him like Muggle-made mirrored sunglasses. She was dressed in a pair of skintight black leather trousers and a black dragon-hide jacket. "Hi. You're Greeneyes, aren't you? I want to talk to you."

"Don't talk to anybody without I know their name," Harry managed to say; he could see the wand in her hand, not quite pointed at him.

"Call me Mione. Mione Millions. My boss is looking to hire you." She gave him a sardonic smile. "I think you'll like what he has to offer you."

"What could he have to offer me? The Swede here should have told you I don't come cheap."

"How about a cure for that little vertigo problem you've got?" That got Harry's instant attention, before the wariness that kept one alive in Knockturn Alley took over.

"Impossible. Even the Black Healers have given up on that. It'd take a potions genius to do that---and how did you know I had a vertigo problem?"

"Easy." Mione Millions held out a piece of parchment. "My boss is a potions genius. He wants you to do a job for him." Harry scanned the parchment; although he had not been a great student in Potions class, he had learned more than enough from having talked with the experts to see that this did, indeed, look like a solution to his problem. The thought of being able to fly again, to be able to go back to Quidditch---it was incredibly tempting. "Why'd he send you, by the way? Why can't he come himself?"

"Easy. He trusts me---and I've got talents you don't expect." All of a sudden both her hands were the paws of a gigantic cat, and she slipped the claws out of their sheaths, playfully running them down Harry's chest, not quite hard enough to tear his shirt.

END


	8. Gilbert and Sullivan

Harry Potter, as written by Gilbert and Sullivan

My Eyes Are Finally Open

(ttto: My Eyes Are Fully Open, from Gilbert and Sullivan's _Ruddigore_)

Harry Potter:

My eyes are finally open to this awful situation

I must go tonight to Voldemort and face annihilation

If my friends learned what I'm planning they would say I've lost my senses

(At least Hermione, for poor old Ron severely dense is)

Now, I do not want to perish in an act of awful slaughter,

I would rather live my life beside the red-haired Weasley daughter,

But although I am as gone as any goose that's on a platter,

I will walk into the woods because it really doesn't matter!

Hermione:

'Cause it really doesn't matter...

Ron:

'Cause it really doesn't matter...

Trio:

'Cause it really doesn't matter, cause it really doesn't matter,

Cause it really doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!

Hermione:

Although they say I'm bookish and in fact I'm rather nerdy

And when I try to help my friends they say I'm rather wordy

I would say that going off into the woods is rather silly

And the thought of facing off with Riddle makes me feel all chilly

Since the war is not yet lost and all our friends are in the fight there

Why go off and just be killed to all the Death Eaters' delight there?

Of course your death would mean that all our hopes would truly shatter,

But I'll keep my big mouth shut for my opinion doesn't matter!

Harry:

Her opinion doesn't matter,

Ron:

Her opinion doesn't matter,

Trio:

Her opinion doesn't matter, her opinion doesn't matter,

Her opinion doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!

Ron:

Since we first met upon the train you've been just like my brother,

I would tell you all my secrets when I wouldn't tell another,

Although we've had our rifts you've always been the friend I'd lie for,

And the friend that I would steal for, and the friend that I would die for.

And I hope to stand there smiling as you wed my little sister

(At least if all the Dark Lord's evil curses have still missed her)

And although our hopes for winning have now frayed into a tatter,

I would like to stop you now but my opinion doesn't matter!

Harry:

His opinion doesn't matter,

Hermione:

His opinion doesn't matter,

Trio:

His opinion doesn't matter, his opinion doesn't matter,

His opinion doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!


	9. George MacDonald Fraser

Flashman and the Sorcerers, or Harry Potter and the Hero of Kabul

from the Flashman Papers, written ca. 1905-1910

In a long and varied life, I admit that I've only had a few rules that I have followed. One of them is "Never, ever mess with the supernatural. It don't pay." The one time I ever broke that rule comprehensively, it wasn't my fault. If that beastly Voldemort had left my loving Elspeth alone, or the wanton trot had shown the least amount of common sense about who she did the honeymoon hornpipe with, all would've been well. However, t'wasn't a complete waste of time, by any means-I met some of the most interesting people, such as Hermione Granger, a saucy little snapper with a slantendicular look in her eye, and, if I am any judge, a weak spot for chaps like me, with my six feet of height, broad shoulders, dark good looks and cavalry whiskers. Not that I ever tried anything with her-she was too young for me by half, and I bar paramours that can turn me into a newt. Now, that lithe seductress Sybilla Trelawney, on t'other hand, was another story entirely. She'd a passion for Adam's arsenal and little enough opportunity to indulge in it, being a teacher and all. Giving such women a taste of Harry in the night is just nuts to a chap like me.

It all started in the year 18-, when I'd gone to ground in London after another round of terrifying adventures to get my breath back and my wounds tended. Oxen and wainropes, I swore, would not be enough to drag me from London again. Of course, I've said that many times before-much good it ever did me!

The then PM was a waste of space and air, like most politicos (learned my own lesson about them, didn't I—my attempt to get into Commons ended up with me shanghaied aboard that bl—dy awful slave ship and abused by that d-ed maniac John Charity Spring, not to mention dragged clear to America and across the continent before I could find a way home to England) but at least the beastly cad didn't appear in the middle of one's sitting room of an evening.

I was sitting up with a bottle of brandy, more than half-foxed and considering whether I'd do better looking up an old flame who lived in Belgravia, or toddling off to bed. Elspeth was off in Scotland; one of her beastly sisters had just pupped, and so, of course, Elspeth just had to be there to give the sprog her auntly blessings. Me, I avoided my Scotch in-laws, and they me, which suited me right down to the ground.

In any case, all of a sudden there was this loud _pfoomp_ sound, and a strange cove in long robes was standing there before me. As you can imagine, that sobered me right up—Flash don't like the unexpected, not one bit he don't, and given my background, can you blame me?

"You're Colonel Harry Flashman." The robed cove sounded very sure of himself, so I abandoned my first plan, which was to plead in my best Whitechapel whine that 'twasn't me, guv'nor, the big cove's somewhere else. "I have need of you."

My face went red—others' do with anger, but with me, it's a sign that my yellow belly's doing the polka down inside me. "And if I am? D-n your impudence, sir, what gives you the right to just appear here? An Englishman's home is his castle, and if you don't give me a good explanation, I'll toss you through the window!" After all these years, I'm good at carrying off a bluff, while all the while looking around for some way to escape.

The cove pointed a stick at me and muttered something like "incarcerus," and all of a sudden, I was tied up, neat as ninepence! "I was told that you'd be a difficult man to deal with. However, your reputation for courage and resourcefulness has recommended you to me. Allow me to introduce myself." He gave me a little bow, neat as Rudi von Starnberg, damn him. "I am Amadeus Asmodeus Black, Minister of Magic in H.M. Government."

As you can no doubt imagine, this took me well aback. I had mostly slept through my lessons in the British governmental system at Rugby, but I'd have remembered if they'd mentioned a Ministry of Magic. I also couldn't deny that he'd apparently trussed me up by casting a spell. Very well—I've always been one to deal with things the way they were, admittedly, after trying hard to escape the situation. "You seem to already know me, but if you don't, I'm Harry Paget Flashman, Colonel—currently on half-pay—and the Hero of Kabul."

"We need a hero."

At his words, I felt a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach, and barely kept myself from throwing up. Apparently my heroic reputation, false though it be, had percolated even to the wizards, and I had a feeling that even if I threw myself at his feet, bawling, he'd just think it was a joke in dubious taste. It's pure hell, sometimes, being six-feet-plus with a build like mine and a bluff, manly face. If I were weedy and sickly-looking, nobody'd think of me when they're looking for a willing fool to toss into the nearest bowl of mulligatawny.


	10. William Shakespeare

Harry Potter, as written by William Shakespeare

by Technomad

(from the play The Tragedie of Harrie Potter, Parte the Seventh)

Scene Seven:

Before the castle of Hogwarts. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom stand in front of Dumbledore's Army. They address their troops.

Harry:

Let all who have no stomach for this fight

Depart at once; their passage shall be free

And Galleons to live on put into their pouch.

We would not wish to owe our lives to such

As dare the hazard not of their free will.

Neville:

Now is the summer of our childhood o'er

Cut short in bloom by this unsightly cloud,

And I, that am not made for Quidditch games,

I, that am rudely stamp'd, and lack great sorcery,

Am forc'd to fight to set our people free.

Harry:

Our foes claim that they fight but for Death's end,

And yet they lie, in word and in their deeds,

For what spread they, but Death to all they hate?

They claim that they boast pure wizarding blood,

And yet they lie, for Riddle, their foul "Lord,"

Doth spring from magic folk but on one side!

His dam, poor soul, was of the line of Gaunt,

A line long sunk in incest and insane.

His sire, poor wretch, was not a mage at all!

For Thomas Riddle was a Muggle true

And knew no spell, nor could he fly a broom.

And from such stock, with blight upon his dam

What else could come but madness and sure doom?

Neville:

The Dark Lord spread his fear both far and wide

And yet was foiled by a mere infant child!

For lo, this Riddle is but a paltry wretch,

A weakling fool, who ne'er in all his life

Did face a foe in true and equal fight!

His followers are the scum of all the earth,

Whom their o'ercloyed countries have vomited forth

To desperate adventures and assured destruction!

If we must be slaves, let it be to men,

And not this band of foul banditto scum

Who could not take down six, and them not trained,

When they and we last faced off o'er wands

In the interior of the Ministry.

Harry:

Let not their foolish masks befright our souls,

For death is but a doorway in the air,

Thro' which all pass, to find a better world!

Our duties? Those are heavy as the world,

While death is lighter than a feather borne

On the sweet breath of any smiling babe.

A drum sounds. Cries of "Morsmordre!" from offstage.

Hark! They come!

This day is called the second day of May,

And May the Second shall be well renown'd

As long as wizards cast their mighty spells!

And wizards in the Alleys or Hogsmeade

Shall curse the fates, that they did not stand here

And hold their magic cheap, while any speak

That fought with us, this second day of May!

March on, march on, let us to it, pell-mell!

If not to heaven-then hand-in-hand to hell!


	11. The Beach Boys

Fun Fun Fun (Bellatrix' Song)

(ttto "Fun Fun Fun" by the Beach Boys)

Well, the Dark Lord came and got Bellatrix right out of the can now,

She went straight back to the Dark Lord and forgot all about her old man now,

She's got herself a wand and is cursing just as hard as she can now,

And she'll have fun, fun, fun till she's facing Molly Weasley's A-K!

All those years in the prison did some really nasty things to her thinking,

She's acting so evil that I wonder what she's smoking or drinking,

She's after everybody who talked 'cause she hates people finking,

And she'll have fun, fun, fun till she's facing Molly Weasley's A-K!

She's the Dark Lord's best girl and he turns her loose when he wants some killing,

When slaughter's to be done you can bet Bellatrix will be willing,

Watching people plead and scream and perish is a thing she finds thrilling,

And she'll have fun, fun, fun till she's facing Molly Weasley's A-K!

Well, she should have figured out that the Dark Lord had no chances of winning,

And she went way overboard doing all of that evil and sinning

Now she's lying there dead with Molly Weasley standing over her grinning,

And she had fun, fun, fun till she met with Molly Weasley's A-K!


	12. Skippy, of Skippy's List

Harry Potter as written by Skippy of "Skippy's List" fame

by Technomad

A poteen distillery is not an acceptable out-of-class extra-credit activity for Potions class.

Even if I make sure to share.

If caught distilling poteen, I must not allow the teachers to confiscate the stuff. The staff here is nutty enough without hangovers.

The Slytherin Seeker's name is "Draco Malfoy," not "Joffrey Baratheon," no matter how strong the resemblance is.

In reference to the above, I am to address his parents as "Madame and Mister Malfoy," not as "Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime." They may be purebloods, but they aren't quite _that_ fond of inbreeding.

Cornelius Fudge's title is "Minister of Magic" or "Mr. Minister," if I'm addressing him directly. He is not to be addressed as: "Mein Fuhrer," "Il Duce," "Conducator," "General Secretary of the Communist Party," "Caudillo," "Great Helmsman," "Dear Leader," "Ascended Master," "Big Brother," "Fearless Leader," or "Illuminatus." (He really liked "Ascended Master," but the rest of the Ministry thought he was putting on too many airs.)

The proper way to greet Professor Umbridge is "Good morning, Professor Umbridge," not for my whole class to spring to attention, throw our right arms out in the Fascist salute, and give her three hearty "Sieg Heils."

I am not allowed to join, or recruit for, the Communist Party.

The same, as above, for the Hells Angels, the Bavarian Illuminati, the Esoteric Order of Dagon, the Church of Starry Wisdom and the "Riverdance" troupe.

I am not to call the Death Eaters "a bunch of Klan wanna-bes." This makes Lord Voldemort cry.

I am not to call Lord Voldemort a cheap imitation of Max Schreck in _Nosferatu_.

My "Peter Lorre" laugh makes most of my classmates and teachers very nervous, and I am to stop it _at once. _

My school is not "Ravenclaw House, and those other, lesser Houses we graciously allow to continue existing to burnish our glory all the brighter by comparison."

Not allowed to turn in my homework in obscure languages just to show off. (Honestly, how was I to know that Snape's the only person on staff who can translate Gothic, Coptic and Volapuk?)

Taking advantage of people with no common sense is mean, so I am not allowed to sell "sub-aquatic investment acreage in sun-kissed Southern Florida" any more.

Pursuant to the above, I am to return the money to Professor Trelawney, Luna Lovegood, Parvati Patel, and Lavender Brown, and apologize.

Even though we are beyond the reach of Muggle law here, I am not allowed to construct weapons of mass destruction.

The same goes, as above, for starting organized-crime syndicates.

And counterfeiting Muggle money. (The British Government hates the competition.)

Our school motto is "_Draco dormiens nunquam tittilandus_," not "_Si Caesar viveret, ad remum dareris_."

Zatanna is not going to be our next Defense professor. (Sorry, guys!)

Same goes for Stephen Strange Master of the Mystic Arts, Mandrake, and Saruman. (Sorry, girls!)

There is no such thing as a "Page Three witch" and I am to stop inducing my female classmates to allow me to photograph them undressed "to send it in for consideration."

By the same token, the _Quibbler_ does not have a "Playwitch of the Month."

When the Goblet of Fire is about to announce the chosen candidates for the Triwizard Tournament, I am not allowed to say "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Even though we sound wonderful and can sing it in four-part harmony, I am not to induce my fellow Ravenclaws to sing "Send In the Clowns" to welcome our new first-year students.

By the same token, leaving a set of drums and a copy of _This Is Spinal Tap_ as gifts for our new Defense professor is in very poor taste.

Although there is some resemblance, our Potions Master wants it made absolutely clear that he is _not_ Johnny Cash…and that _one_ more request for a rendition of "Folsom Prison Blues," "I Walk the Line," or _especially _"The Man In Black" will get the requester a month's detention cleaning cauldrons with his or her tongue.

Professor Snape also wants it made absolutely clear that he is _not_ the Mad Monk of Russia, despite the clear resemblance, and that if he hears _one note_ of "Ra Ra Rasputin (Lover of the Russian Queen)," the singer(s) will be turned into potions ingredients.

While I'm on the subject, our Potions Master does not _appreciate_ being serenaded…even with "Love Potion Number Nine." He wants it made clear that _his_ love potions work properly.

No matter how cute she is when she's drunk, we do not need to have Luna Lovegood up on the dinner table, dancing and singing "The Hedgehog Shall Never Be Buggered At All."

Neither Professor Dumbledore nor Hagrid are "the missing Freak Brother, the one who left before they became famous."

Cornelius Fudge does not like being called "Lucius Malfoy's sock puppet." Even if it's true.

The greenhouses are for the growing of magical plants and fungi, not for my sinsemilla production.

If caught with sinsemilla, I am not to whine "Professor Dumbledore bogarted it all, the fink!"

I am not allowed to induce house elves to talk like Gollum, no matter how funny it is to hear them hissing: "Ach, sss, _gollum_! Nasssty Death Eaterses, we hatess them, hatess them, doessn't we, my preciousss?"

I am not allowed to speak Nadsat any more, ever since some blabbermouth Muggleborn clued our teachers in about _A Clockwork Orange_.

I am not allowed to try to post Draco Malfoy to Tierra Del Fuego or Australia labeled as "a laboratory primate."

My copy of Luttwak's _Coup d'Etat Manual_ is to stay at home. The last time it was here, the Slytherins pestered me till I let them borrow it, and I had to appeal to Dumbledore directly to get it back.

When exposing pureblood classmates to Muggle entertainment, I am not to start them out with the uncut versions of _I Claudius _or any HBO series.

This is Hogwarts Castle, not Winterfell, no matter how many times I repaint the sign over the front door.

Coloring a hand grenade white and throwing it to Bella Lestrange when she's after a prophecy is not fighting fair. Even though it's funny.

Professor McGonagall is not old enough to have been involved in the Jacobite rebellions, or to have borne Bonnie Prince Charlie's love child, and I am to quit telling wild stories. (Besides, mentioning the Jacobites around her just makes her cry.)

Creating the "Darwin Mark" in imitation of the Dark Mark, and firing it into the air when my schoolmates or teachers do something I consider particularly stupid is in very bad taste, even though the teachers laughed themselves sick when I explained what it was.

Sirius Black is not going to star in a remake of _Midnight Express_. (Not enough hot chicks for his taste. He _has_ expressed interest in starring in a remake of _Showgirls_, and I am in negotiation for the rights.)

My female schoolmates are sweet, innocent, pure, demure, wholesome and utterly uninterested in whatever carnal excesses I have planned. (By order of Professor Dumbledore, on pain of something he calls the "Eunuch Curse.")

Luna Lovegood does _not_ have the Innsmouth Look, and I am to quit scaring the firsties by saying that she does. Even though she did think it was wonderful fun to let them hear her chanting hideous chants calling the Giant Squid out of the lake to devour Professor Umbridge. (Hagrid stopped her. He saw a pattern of ripples out on the lake that even he did not like.)

Professor Umbridge _also_ does _not_ have the Innsmouth Look. (By order of the Esoteric Order of Dagon.)

Potions class is not a good place to demonstrate that I know how to make LSD-25.

Or TNT, C-4 or ammonium tri-iodide. (That last one nearly gave Snape a heart attack when I demonstrated just what it would do.)

The Theosophical Mahatmas are not watching us every second.

Draco Malfoy's companions are "Crabbe and Goyle," not "The Stones that Speak."

Harry Potter's two companions are "Granger and Weasley," not "his filthy assistants."

I am not allowed to borrow the Thestrals, even if it is dead easy.

If I have borrowed the Thestrals, I am not allowed to buzz Hogsmeade.

If I am buzzing Hogsmeade, I am not allowed to play "The Ride of the Valkyries."

Dead Death Eaters do not "smell like victory." Even in the morning.

When I am asked about the most passionate love affair I've ever seen, I am not to answer "That would be the one between Draco Malfoy and Draco Malfoy."

Our school medical person is "Madame Pomfrey," not "Major Houlihan," and _especially not_ "Hot Lips." No matter how wild my mother told me she was when they were girls together, back when the world was young.

Not allowed to stitch together dead body parts and re-animate them into an unholy parody of life. Not even to win the school prize for the most original project.

The Head of Gryffindor is "Professor McGonagall," not "Granny Weatherwax." Even though it is an easy mistake to make. She does not appreciate cheap flattery.

Selling shares in perpetual-motion machines, Snorkack detectors, and other such confidence swindles is no longer allowed.

The Weasley Twins are a bad example, not people whose precedents I must surpass for the honor of Ravenclaw House.

We do not do rituals "sky-clad" here at Hogwarts. No matter how hot and alluring my female classmates would be in that state.

Harry Potter's best male friend is Ronald Weasley, not Ronald Macdonald. (Hey, it's an easy mistake to make!)

Not allowed to go skinny-dipping in the lake any more.

Not allowed to streak the Great Hall any more. No matter how loudly my female classmates whistled and cheered and called for encores.

Singing "We Are the Champions" at the end of exam time may be nothing but truth in advertising, but it upsets the residents of other, less intellectually-well-endowed Houses. (Snape gave us the filthiest look!)

Not allowed to pass out Jack Chick tracts, even the ones about witchcraft. They make my classmates go into giggling fits at inappropriate times.

Even if I am a Seer, I am not allowed to call myself "Karnak the Magnificent."

Also not allowed to pointedly predict Draco Malfoy's future as the cutest little love-bundle in Azkaban. It upset him terribly.

Not allowed to take a Gap Year. Even if I'm going to "go help the freedom fighters."

Making and selling voodoo dolls of people of whom I disapprove is a very bad idea. Lucrative, but bad.

I am to check with Professors Flitwick and Dumbledore before putting any more money-making schemes into operation, on pain of expulsion.


	13. Rudyard Kipling

Harry Potter as written by Rudyard Kipling

by Technomad

The Female Found at Hogwarts

There is one thing that you notice when you get to Hogwarts School,

That it has both boys and girls there, and there's just one simple rule

That will keep you sane and breathing as you hit the Hogwarts trail:

That the female found at Hogwarts is more deadly than the male!

You start out with that stately old Assistant Headmistress

Though she may look pretty harmless she can cause you some distress!

She knows Transfiguration and can turn you to a snail

And the female found at Hogwarts is more deadly than the male!

There's that brainy, bushy-haired "Mudblood" they call Hermione

She has learned a lot from reading and can use it instantly

For revenge is just another test at which she'll never fail

And the female found at Hogwarts is more deadly than the male!

And her housemate Ginny Weasley is another potent threat

She's as clever as her brothers and nobody's caught her yet!

With Fred and George as role-models, how can she not prevail?

And the female found at Hogwarts is more deadly than the male!

Or that dreamy-eyed blonde Ravenclaw we call Luna Lovegood,

You may dis her daddy's paper but I don't think that you should,

For she'll feed you to the snorkacks and she'll giggle while you wail

And the female found at Hogwarts is more deadly than the male!

The Death Eaters also have them, as with Bellatrix Lestrange,

She's a sadist who'll zap you if she sees that you're in range

And she killed her cousin Sirius, sent him flying through the Veil,

And the evil Hogwarts Old Girl is more deadly than the male!

You will find no witch is harmless, from their anger you should flee,

Even harmless looking housewives, like a certain M. Weasley,

You'll find if you harm Weasleys that her vengeance never stales,

And the female Hogwarts Old Girls are more deadly than the males!

For the Slytherins are sneaky, and the Gryffindors are fierce,

And the Ravenclaws' raw knowledge gives defense no one can pierce,

And the Hufflepuffs' hard labor is what makes the good prevail

And the female found at Hogwarts is more deadly than the male!


End file.
